Chapter Text
You come to groggily, your face pressed against the cold metal floor.
An involuntary groan moves through you as you roll over and reorient yourself. Technically speaking, you are a stowaway. Something that had once been exciting, early in your travels with the Doctor. Something that you’d then gotten used to… also early in your travels. As it turned out, illicit or otherwise unauthorized boarding of various modes of transport was a bit of a speciality of the Doctor’s, her TARDIS very much included.
So, this isn’t a new situation for you. Typical, even, to find yourself waking up disoriented and stiff. But it would have been nice if they could have put Yaz in with you. You don’t see why you have to be in separate cells —if this dingy closet-looking room could even be considered a cell — especially with your hands bound in front of you with hastily scavenged rope. You blink down at them, annoyed, trying to order your memories. Yaz…your last sight of Yaz had been the ship’s crew pulling her away from you, down the hall where you’d been so unfortunately and swiftly discovered. She’d been resisting and arguing as her hands were bound, same as you. You remember clearly the way your eyes had met for the last time, a brief, shared glance of ‘oh, here we go again’, before you had been unceremoniously dumped in this underwhelming not-cell.
And…then you’d been left alone.
For a while, anyway.
Then the questions had started. That too was normal enough on its own; traveling with the Doctor had led you to becoming very accustomed to answering questions like “who are you?” and “how did you get in here?”, along with “what’s she doing?” and “what’s that blue box?” And of course your favourite one, the best one, “can you help?”
But these questions… They’d started normal, but at your first sign of agitation (you’d been chucked in a cell before you could explain yourself, you were cold and bound and alone, of course you were agitated) thing had gotten… ugly.
“Where’s my friend? Yaz?” you’d asked quickly during the first lull as they talked you in circles, refusing to accept that you had arrived via a teleportation field (an easier way to explain the TARDIS materializing and summarily dematerializing as the Doctor flitted off on a secondary excursion, making a promise to “catch you both up” that neither of you had believed). The crew had ignored you, and annoyed, you’d asked again, interrupting them with a very Doctor-like indignation.
“She’s not your concern right now,” you’d been told stiffly. “She’ll be fine if she cooperates. It’s you that —“
But the tacit threat had made your heart clench, and you’d rocked forwards on your knees, your eyes roving their blank, flat faces, desperation rising in you. “We’re trying to cooperate but you won’t listen — if I could just see her —“ and there you had raised your voice. Just slightly. Only a little, a ragged uptick lifting the edge of your desperate words.
And they had converged on you, all of them, as if they had been waiting for it.
You had recoiled, exclaiming in wordless shock and burgeoning fear, prompting one of the crew to clap a rough hand over your mouth while others grabbed your arms, your shoulders, any bit they could. Pressing you down, in the dim, dirty closet.
You remember that only in flashes. But it’s enough.
You remember how you had erupted, terror and rage lending you strength you hadn’t known you possessed. You fought those clutching, controlling hands, muffled shrieks around the hand still held to your mouth as you thrashed, trying to kick, to bite, to do anything, anything. They were talking to each other, low, monotone voices that you weren’t really listening to.
“Stop it, stop it now before it’s too late — no time for the sedative, just hit them — can’t risk it —“
An explosion of pain in your temples, stars flaring in your eyes.
You had awoken to a splitting headache and the door to your cell opening, the crew filing back in for, no doubt, more questions they wouldn’t listen to. But you’d snarled and kicked at them before they could start, not wanting to let them anywhere near you, no hands, no hands, where was Yaz —
And again they’d overpowered you as your voice rose, wrestling you down, hasty hands clamped over your mouth as you struggled to keep shouting at them. There’d been a prick at your neck that time, and you’d again lost consciousness, terror moving sluggishly through your veins as you slid sideways, their forms fracturing into many and then none as the dark took you.
And now here you were again, your headache doubled and a metallic taste in your mouth as you shoved yourself into a seated position and looked around blearily.
Everything is dark and cold, with only the weak glow of emergency lights set in the wall illuminating your cell. You blink slowly; when had the lights gone out? You need to move, need to get out of here.
No giving yourself time to think better of it, you shove yourself to your feet. You stumble, your bound hands unbalancing you as you hit the wall. The effort makes your headache spike, and you actually dry-heave around the nauseating agony, leaning your forehead against the cool metal wall. The room spins around you in sickening lurches and you shut your eyes. It doesn’t help, and you open them again before staggering drunkenly to the door. You’re able to reach the swipe-pad with your hands, just barely, but the pad flashes red with a sullen beep of negation each time you try. Locked. You lean your aching head against the wall again.
“Doctor,” you whisper, “Yaz, where are you?”
God, it had all gone so wrong, so fast. It would be almost funny, if you weren’t feeling so sick. If you knew where Yaz was. God, Yaz…
You had both been so pleased to be following this distress signal on your own, while the Doctor popped off to examine an “interesting gravitational fluctuation” nearby. It’d taken a bit of convincing; she’d been reluctant to let you and Yaz go alone, but you’d both been adamant. You could check it out, you’d have each other after all. And the Doctor had a time-traveling space ship; it wasn’t like she could’t get to you if needed. So she’d finally agreed, promising to catch you both up as soon as she’d had a “quick look”. She’d materialized the TARDIS in an out of the way corridor on a ship, meeting your eyes with a quick smile and a “See you soon!” before shutting the door and dematerializing.
You remembered how you and Yaz had looked at each other, grinning, breathless with excitement and determination to help.
And you’d been attacked almost immediately, by humans (or human-looking aliens, it wasn’t clear, a surprising amount of sentient species followed the bipedal ape model, Doctor included). It had been such an odd attack, too; they’d shown almost no emotion, outwardly, their faces still, their voices flat. Even as they gripped you and Yaz with fingers that bruised, as they forced you against the wall and roughly bound your hands, their faces and voices had been so calm.
Their eyes, though… you’d seen terror in many, many forms. You’d recognize it anywhere, in any species.
And the crew of this little ship were absolutely out of their minds with fear.
“What’s wrong?” you had tried asking them, as they dragged you and Yaz away. “What’s wrong? We can help if you just tell us — ” But they had just covered your mouth, silencing your attempts to make them hear you, make them understand.
And now you were here and had learned almost nothing, except that they like to ask questions and then punish you for answering. Is that what they’re looking for? Your silence? Refusal? No… you don’t think so. Not with that fear. But what then?
Your mind runs in circles as you alternate between pacing your cell and leaning your aching head against the wall.
You suspect that you’ll be questioned again, and so you’re still on your feet and ready as the door hisses open again, tense and wary.
Only one crew comes in, instead the standard three you’ve grown accustomed to. At some point the lights had flickered back on, and you’re able to make out the insignia stitched on his jumpsuit: Hugh S. You stare at him, your head pounding, and get in a question of your own first.
“Why did you send the distress signal?”
The man — Hugh — looks down at you, considering. His face is as carefully blank as everyone’s has been so far. Frustration surges in you as he holds his silence. “My friend and I, we’re here to help,” you press, trying to keep the pain and irritation from your voice.
“You have helped,” he says calmly, shifting forward enough to crowd you. You ease back, head pounding.
“How?” you ask warily, trying to keep a grasp on the conversation. Why is it just him this time?
“We’ve reported you and your friend,” he says, taking another step closer, plunging his face into shadow as the light moves behind him. You press your shoulders against the wall, unease and pain and confusion all twisting together in your gut as he keeps talking. Still so calm, so neutral. “See, nobody cared about our distress signal. Standard procedure, really, for us outer rim miners. Nobody cares about us unless we come home with something good. And if we find something bad? Well, best to let us drift and see what happens, before risking core lives.” He’s starting to sound angry, and seems to realize it, breaking off and turning his head away. You’re struggling to process everything, watching as he breathes heavily. He looks back at you, and you catch the dull shine of his teeth as he quirks a quick smile. Unease stirs in you again.
“But then you and your friend came bursting in,” he resumes, as if there had been no interruption. “With illegal tech, in restricted core space.” He shakes his head slowly. “No identification. Nobody to vouch for you.”
“Thats not —“
“Silence.” The word slices through the air, and you break off, startled. “Learning, that’s good,” he says. “You’ll need that, where you’re going. It’s hard labor for pirates usually, though sometimes you get assigned to slightly more interesting sites.” He’s still smiling, and your unease shifts into fear — swiftly followed by anger.
“You — you sold us?” you splutter. “You can’t do that. That’s — you can’t —”
“Wardens are on their way,” he says over you. His lips twist. “They wouldn’t come for our distress signal, but to collect pirates? Oh, now they’re interested. We’ll be able to get off this ship now, instead of dying here. We should be thanking you.”
It’s too much for you to absorb, with your aching head and your breath coming faster. You don’t understand what’s going on (dying? Why would they be dying?) but your mind keeps coming back to the same thing.
“You sold us. You — how — we came here to help —“
“And you are,” he says. “You and your friend. Maybe they’ll even keep you together. Though, I doubt it, she’s still out cold —“
He’s still smiling as he says it, watching you so carefully. And you snap.
(Later of course you would realize that that was what he had wanted the whole time, what he had been waiting for. Why he had come alone. Why he had been smiling, where everyone else had been so carefully blank, even as they subdued you. They had to — he wanted to.)
You surge towards him with an unsteady lurch, your fists balled in their restraints. “If you hurt her — if you touched her —“
He doesn’t use a syringe, or a sedative; that isn’t why he’s there, after all. He uses his fists, and his boots, and you don’t think you’ll ever forget the way his teeth sometimes catch the sickly light of the cell, revealing the faintest smile. The slight crescent, a slash in the dark, follows you into the waiting dark again.
Waking up again is… bad. Your groan is a weak, ragged sort of sound as you roll over. Forcing yourself to sit up again is difficult, difficult enough that you don’t pause to let the consequences catch up to you before you lurch to your feet in one unsteady lunge.
You lean against the wall and try to steady your breathing, your face flashing alternately hot and cold in sickening pulses. One of your eyes feels hot and puffy, and there’s a dull sort of pain burgeoning in your left arm that feels big, somehow, and promises worse to come. It’s the nausea, though, lurching in time to each spike of pain in your head, that’s the worst. Side-effects of the sedative, you think dully, teeth gritted. Made worse by — a flash of teeth — flat eyes —
You shove the memory away, squeezing your eyes shut. Your head pounds, a wave of dizziness sweeping through you, and you open your eyes again, clammy with cold sweat.
You can’t afford a concussion. Can’t afford to let the pain dictate your actions. You need to get out of here, need to find Yaz.
Need to act like the Doctor, in her absence. So. Options. You force your head up, looking around the room with an aching, critical eye.
The lights are out again, only the muted blue glow of emergency lights illuminating the dingy room. You don’t like that, and you like the silence of the ship even less as you realize you can’t feel the engine rumbling beneath your feet. There aren’t any alarms, though, so the danger —whatever it is, you still don’t know — seems limited.
You move around your cell carefully, wincing as each steps sends knives digging into your skull. You force yourself on; it’s what the Doctor would do. Injuries, imprisonment, hostile locals: she never lets them stop her, and so neither will you.
It’s not until your third pass of the small space that you notice the vent, tucked around your eye level on the far wall.
You examine it, trying to force your blurring vision to focus. It definitely looks like a vent for air ducts or wiring. And it confirms your suspicions that this room isn’t normally used as a brig, but instead likely storage. They’re a mining ship after all, for all that they seem to be selling you and Yaz… Yaz! Your head jerks up, turning back towards the locked door. Out cold, you remember, the words running through your mind like grains of sand, abrasive and building with each repetition. You have to find her. But the door is locked. And you don’t know how much time you have.
You look back at the grate. It’s a bad option, but maybe your only one. You try to lift your hands to run your fingers along the edges, but the ropes twist and and cut into your inflamed skin, tilting your movements. You grit your teeth, thinking while your head pounds in time to your pulse. You think you could maybe pry the grate off, if only you had use of your hands.
You look down, and twist your wrists experimentally. The bonds are… tight, but not professionally tight. You’ve had some experience with this (again, thanks to traveling with the Doctor who isn’t always so great at first impressions) and these have some wiggle to them. You could, you think, get them off. If you’re determined enough.
You stare at your wrists as the lights flicker back on, casting uneasy shadows. And then, as you take a deep breath… something shrieks, from the depths of the ship. You freeze, your heart throwing itself against your ribs. It’s probably… probably just the metal of the hull, settling. Normal ship sounds. Right. The lights flicker again, and you twitch, the echo of that sound ringing in your head.
You can’t stay here.
Jaw tense, you set to wiggling your wrists while keeping a wary eye on the door for any more visitors.
It’s… not good, and only gets worse as time goes on.“Come on, come on,” you mutter, blinking tears from your eyes; at some point the skin had gone from inflamed to abraded to oozing, and you know that the pain now is nothing compared to what it will evolve into, after it sets its claws in. You don’t have long.
In the end, the blood acts as a sort of lubricant, and your left wrist slides suddenly out of the rope with a sensation like fire. You retch, vision flashing white as you cradle the freed hand to your chest.
For a moment you shudder and breathe, nausea and agony rocking you while your arm drips gently onto the metal floor, red splatters that look almost black in the half-light.
Then you swallow, and straighten, and examine the vent again, able now to brush the tears from your blurring eyes as you focus. You can do this.
You lose some more skin and a bit of fingernail, but another echoing shriek of probably-just-cooling-metal proves sufficient motivation, and you pry loose one of the screws with a grim surge of satisfaction. The grating weakened, a second and third screw quickly follow, pinging dully against the dusty floor. You spare a brief thought for the deplorable condition of the ship, suspecting that a vent cover shouldn’t be removable by one injured human, but you’re grateful for it.
Sweating with the effort, you force the panel off the wall, the metal groaning as it bends. The rope dangling loose from your right hand keeps catching on the metal, and you eventually wrap the end loosely around the wrist, tucking the tail in out of the way before resuming your efforts.
You can’t get it all the way off, not sure if it’s your own strength or the metal giving out. Doesn’t matter. You look at the opening and realize this might actually be better, because it might allow you to pull the grate back and disguise your exit. It probably won’t buy you much time but… better than nothing. You’ll take whatever you can get.
You wipe your forehead with your right hand, which is clumsy with the rope still biting into it. It feels swollen, too, but you don’t have the time (or, you think, nerve) to try and remove the bindings fully. You do your best to ignore it.
Looking back at the dark hole in the wall, you swallow. This is, quite possibly, a very bad idea. Maybe one of the worst you’ve had to date, and that’s a competitive category. It’s also better than staying here passively, doing nothing to help yourself or Yaz. And it’s definitely what the Doctor would do. Assuming Yaz is in a similar room close by, you should be able to find her. How you’ll get a panel off from the inside, you have no idea. If Yaz is awake, then she’ll be able to help. And once you were together, you’d be stronger. And it’d be easier for the Doctor to find you, something you’re very much looking forward to.
You stare into the darkness, and the lights flicker again.“Here we go, then,” you say softly, heart beating painfully fast in your chest. You wipe some blood from your nose, then place your hands in the shaft and leap.
In the end it takes a few tries and a running (shambling, limping, lurching) start before you manage to get your upper body inside the vent. You clench your teeth over gasps of effort and as you wiggle in grim determination, inching forwards. “I can do this,” you whisper fiercely, teeth still clenched. “I have to do this.”
And then, finally — you’re inside. The shaft is just barely wide enough for you to turn around, panting at the effort, shoulders and head scraping along the dented metal confines. Crawling is — bad. Your good hand, the one still bound, is blazing with pain. Anything more than light pressure on your wrist and fingers is almost unbearable; you suspect one of your fingers is broken. But you can’t use the other hand, and so you bear it. There’s no other choice.
. You poke your head back out of the shaft and, with effort, grasp the bent grate. You tug it back into place with a series of lurches. Stars are swimming in your eyes, and your breath is coming too fast as your hands slip on what you don’t realize is blood, but you keep going, until the grate sits again over the entrance. Not entirely straight, and not entirely flush with the wall, but close enough, you hope, to pass a quick initial inspection.
Turning back around, you face the darkness, the sound of your own labored breathing bouncing eerily through the depths. Your eyes have adjusted, and you realize that there are dull emergency lights in here, too, vanishing into the unknown. You set out, crawling painfully, slowly, but forwards nonetheless. You make it your goal to reach a junction before stopping to rest; if you don’t push yourself, you and Yaz will both be in serious trouble.
When the junction arrives, you collapse, something that’s not even a conscious choice. You just lay there, head spinning, breath hissing in and out, brokenly, trying to get control of the pain, of yourself.
And then you push yourself up again, leaning your sweaty head against the wall and considering your choices. Left, right, forward, back.
You remember the flash of Yaz’s eyes as they dragged her away from you. Right, they had been pulling her to the right, which means left in here. Probably. Maybe. It’s all you have to go on. ‘You can’t be afraid to make choices,’ the Doctor had said, once, so long ago. ‘They might be the wrong choices, they might be bad choices, but you have to choose. Have to keep moving.’
“I’m trying, Doctor,” you whisper. “I’m trying.”
But no panel appears as you crawl down the tunnel: instead, you’re faced with a new junction, new choices. You choose. You keep moving.
And the inevitable comes, as you had known it would. You collapse again at another junction, listening to the ragged sound of your own breathing in the dark and admit finally that you’re well and truly lost. You despair, for a while. Then you force yourself upright, and you keep moving.
You’re grim, and determined, and angry.
You’re also in pain, exhausted, and increasingly terrified.
It isn’t until you’re forced to stop again, crunching yourself into an awkward sitting position as you pant and cradle your wrist to your chest, that you hear it.
It’s the screeching, moaning sound of metal expanding and settling, like you heard in your cell. Except it’s accompanied, this time, by snuffling breaths.
And it’s definitely, undeniably coming from inside the vents.
A terrible, shivering screech echoes through the vents again, which is when you realize a third thing:
It’s moving.
You aren’t alone.
Suddenly, the crew doesn’t seem so bad in comparison.
As your breathing and heart rate quicken, the shriek rings out again, closer. Much closer. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to have any issues navigating the maze of vents. You press up against the wall, eyes wide and straining to see anything in the weak light. Shadows seem to waver and dance in your peripheral, adding to your terror.
The metal-tearing shriek rips the vents again, along with eager snuffling. You gasp in a quick breath, covering your mouth with your good hand. Is that — claws, ticking on metal? You’re struck with the sudden knowledge that you’re going to die in these vents, lost and sick and alone. You stifle an involuntary whimper, hand clutching your mouth tighter, the bright bursts of accompanying pain grounding you.
God, of all the things you’ve seen and done with the Doctor, have you ever been this scared? You listen to the snuffling and clicking grow closer, closer, the walls seeming to press in around you, and you finally think that you understand the shining fear you’d seen in the crew member’s eyes, though they’d been so careful to suppress it, to not react —
You frown, your exhausted brain kicking into motion.
What if… what if that was deliberate? What if that’s why they had been so desperate to keep you calm, and quiet? Oh, they’d really missed the mark on that, if so, but… Sitting up straighter, you lower your hand from your mouth and force yourself to breathe slower, more evenly. Basic breathing exercises, counting the seconds between inhales and exhales. You close your eyes too, picturing something calming, and familiar, and safe.
‘Don’t be afraid to choose,’ the Doctor’s voice whispers in your mind, and you cling to that memory, to the way her impossible eyes had glittered with flecks of green and gold as she worked away at the TARDIS console, grease up to her elbows, with goggles pushed up her head making a mess of already untidy blonde hair. You remember how she’d glanced up and cast you a swift, uncomplicated smile as she worked. Normal, a normal day, one you’d had so very many of, and yet not enough, never enough.
You rock back and forth as you breathe, and remember, and the claws tick closer, closer, closer.
Calm, calm, you have to be calm, for the Doctor you can be calm. The Doctor, your Doctor, with her impossible eyes and brilliant smile, her joy for life and adventure so infectious, making you feel more like yourself than anyone ever has before. Your bruised lips ache as they curve into a small and involuntary smile, but you’re thinking only of her, of seeing her again, of falling into those arms.
And when you finally open your eyes again, your heart has slowed. You exhale, trying not to let your breath shake as you peer into the darkness, but nothing materializes. You’re alone again.
You grit your teeth and start moving again, picturing the Doctor every time your heart starts to kick again. You could do this. You could find Yaz, and then you could find the Doctor.
You would do this.
Your hands still leave red smudges, but you don’t care. It doesn’t matter.
But you don’t see the paw prints left in some of the streaks.